Day 20: Never have I ever… made stained glass art.

Pinned to the painting: dozens of
cards from flowers she's received.
Most were from her second husband, Ben,
with sentiments like "You're my darling."
The funniest?"Edie, I never called you STUPID."
Ah, marriage. 

This is a self-portrait of my grandmother. Edie. Artist. She is the most diversely creative person I have ever met in real life. Painting, pastels, charcoal, collage, photography, textiles, even film—she’s explored almost every possible medium with which to express her art. But perhaps her greatest love is working with stained glass. I never asked her what she loves about glass so much… but I’d guess that it's partly the treasure hunt. You can mix any paint hue. But you have to find the right piece of glass. Color, texture, thickness, transparency; it was all about finding the perfection-combination to make her vision a reality. I have vivid childhood memories in her studio…. she’d hold up a pristine, thin slab of glass and declare “Look at this glass against the light. Isn’t the color just wondaahful?” She loves glass.

These are two of her lovely works.

Glass window of my childhood home.     Butterflies are the signature Edie motif. 

Sadly, Edie isn’t in the studio any more. After 80+ years of artistic fuel, she is no longer of body or mind to do the work that she loved so much. And one of the cruelties of life is that you never know when it’s going to be your last day in the studio. She didn’t. So, for the past few years, there has been a half-finished lamp just sitting on her studio’s worktable. It stares at me sadly every time I visit her. It begs to be finished. I shut the door and tell it to be quiet. I don’t know how to do stained glass. 

But now with some more free time on my hands, I thought, hey… maybe I could learn how to do stained glass? So I watched a BUNCH of online videos. It looked like a manageable process, but I knew that this was a craft that had held my grandmother’s attention for a lifetime; it couldn’t be easy. But I would try. 

Lamp, inspired by the Hearst Building   The lamp, unfinished view.

I headed out to Long Island to spend the day in my grandmother’s studio. After a bedside visit with her, I went down to the studio, put on my Pandora Mozart station to really get into the EdieZone, and began to dust off the work station. The studio was in bad shape after years of neglect. It took me about 90 minutes to get things in order, find the right supplies, and take stock of the lamp’s current state. The lamp is actually in decent shape. It needs the fourth panel finished, and then joined to the other three. The connecting joint pieces also need to be soldered into place. 

Luckily, about 98% of the pieces were already cut by Edie years ago. And I need no practice cutting stained glass anyway, thanks to an ill-fated attempt at a glass mosaic table that lived, unfinished, in my parents’ basement for about, oh, 7 years. I cut about 300 pieces of glass for that project before letting it fall to the wayside. (And somewhere, my dad is shaking his head as he reads this…) Cutting glass isn’t really hard. You just score it with a glass cutter, hold it with glass pliers, and apply some pressure. Snap. Glass is cut. I cut a few triangles with ease, just to make sure I still had it. 

Next up, the glass pieces need to be wrapped with copper foil. This looked so easy on the video! It wasn’t. The thin foil curls and sticks to itself, and it’s nearly impossible to perfectly center it over an even thinner piece of glass. It takes some real finesse. After wrapping, the copper foil must be burnished down on all sides with a notched tool. This wasn’t hard, just laborious. She did this for every single piece for every window or lamp she ever did?  Yikes.

Blurry shot of my fresh solder

Next I laid the wrapped piece beside the half-completed panel. It was time for the tricky part: soldering. I heated up the solder iron. Before you solder the pieces together, a thin coat of flux must be applied to the copper foil. Flux is a chemical compound that is inert at room temp, but once heated becomes highly reductive and allows the tin-lead solder to fuse to the copper wrapped pieces. It's basically stained glass glue. I fluxed the joint with a paintbrush and then cut a piece of solder wire slightly larger than the joint to be soldered. First step is to “tin the tip” which means melting a little starter layer of solder on the tip of the iron. 

Whoa, Nelly! This stuff melts in a hot second, literally! I knew that the tin-lead solder had a low melting point, but I didn’t expect the metal to go molten the second it touched the hot iron. Ok, ok. It’s only melted, scalding metal. It will only give me 3^rd degree burns if I have a little slip-up. No bigs. I really wanted to touch this shiny fluid. How hot was it? I felt like Smeagol; the glistening solder was my ring. I'm sure I could touch it... just one little touch... it wouldn't hurt that badly, would it? I was too chicken, and decided some mysteries are best left unknown. I delicately ran the soldering iron up the joint, leading the metallic liquid into the crevasse as I went.  It produced a shiny, beautiful ridge. It was very gratifying.

I repeated a few more wraps and joints and then decided to go up and visit with Edie some more. Her eyesight is poor and her hearing is gone, along with most of her memory. It’s a good visit if we have few simple exchanges. So we just sit together, mostly. I so badly wanted to talk to about the project. I wanted to ask her how long it took to complete her various works, why the flux didn’t take on one spot, how on earth she made these complicated jigsaw puzzles of glass work?! Then, I wanted to punch myself in the face for not asking her all of this while she was still able to tell me. 

Results: I made some serious progress on my learning curve, and I gained a serious appreciation for the patience, skill, vision and detail required for this art. Looking around my grandmother’s home, filled with stained glass pieces in every room, and thinking about all of her works that grace the homes of our family, friends, and the massive glass installation she completed in her local library, I almost cannot believe the thousands of woman-hours that Edie has devoted to her great love. That's a LOT of copper foil. 

Though I didn’t get too far on the project this time, I think I might be able to actually finish her lamp. She might not get it, she might not even remember starting the lamp. But on some level, I think she’ll be happy that I’m trying.

Status: A good starter success. 

Day 19: Never have I ever... explored DUMBO art

Ever notice how easy it is to ignore your local best? The cool attractions directly in our line of sight often just blend into our daily routines. I think this is particularly true for New Yorkers. I always hear of cool events, and think "yeah, sure, i'll go to that thing next weekend." But come next weekend, a friend is in town or I need to do laundry or I'm tired or it's raining or I want to go to brunch instead, and I let another cool experience slip away. And a new experience that would have required minimal effort! Yet I'll block out a Saturday weeks in advance and drive 2.5 hours outside of the city to go to a garlic festival and try 37 varieties of garlic spread, because that takes planning. 

This could not be more true for my next-door-neighborhood: DUMBO. (Note to non-New Yorkers: DUMBO, which stands for Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass is a historic industrial-chic neighborhood in Brooklyn now dubbed NYC's creative capital due to the fact that more artists live or work here, per capita, than anywhere else in the city.) It's just a 7 minute walk from where I live. And it's arguably one of NYC's coolest neighborhoods. And it constantly offers me exposure to cool art and music and culture, and yet I constantly ignore DUMBO. Sure, I've checked out the artsy shops on my lunch hour. But this 8 block radius is teeming with galleries, events, and funky fun. And yet I never walk the 7 minutes down the hill to check it out. 

So when I heard about a new art fair being held in DUMBO this past weekend, I didn't want to let another experience slip away. The event was called Verge: Art Brooklyn. I headed down on Friday early evening and checked it out. 

The streets were bustling only a little more than a typical Friday night in DUMBO. I popped into a gallery in a big lofty office space. There were two long hallways full of exhibiting artists. Photography, painting, sculpture, multimedia... it was a mixed bag. The coolest, in my opinion, was a an artist who creates huge black and white ink pieces so intricate that the viewer needs a magnifying glass to see the whimsical details. He displayed the pieces inside a dark, screened-in cavern, using a moving projection of his work as the only light source. I would have considered buying one, if not for the $1,800 price tags. The oddest exhibition was a live installation piece: The female artist would dress in three different outfits at various points in the evening, with the other two outfits hanging in the background. I asked her about her inspiration and she said that her piece is about identity formation; how our clothes tell the world what our intentions are. It was an interesting take on a somewhat-obvious concept. 

One of my faves: A collage piece called "Teardrop"

Next stop: A giant bookstore-cum-art gallery that served complimentary wine. Jackpot! I had a glass of surprisingly good white wine and browsed the artwork and books. This was the most lively venue thus far (I'm sure that had nothing to do with the gratis wine bar.) The patrons seemed like an interesting bunch. I wanted to strike up a conversation to test the theory of the exhibit I had just seen: Their appearance was telling me "here are some interesting, smart, artistically-minded individuals"... one conversation might confirm their visage. But the thing about this crowd... they were not exactly approachable. So I sipped my wine and mingled with the interesting and very approachable books. 


Next I went down the street to the DUMBO Art Center. There was an artist doing a live diamond-dust work on the floor, which was really neat to watch. I loved a gripping photography exhibit called Tent Life (photos of Haitian post-earthquake living conditions), and did not love the over-sexualized gallery with the melted, mutilated and bloodied silicon mannequin in a lace dress and wig. Just another modern art exhibit. 

A rainbow of miniature human heads.

My last stop of the night. Right away... more free booze! There was a sparse Welcome Table of seemingly unchilled and uninteresting beers. Heineken, Becks, Bud. Ick city. Hello, aren't artsy people supposed to have good taste? But then I thought, wait a sec...free beer!! Who was I kidding, the college kid inside me was elated. The exhibitions here were lovely, and I met an older French painter who reminded me of my artist grandmother. She had come all the way from Paris for this show; I thought about how much my grandmother would enjoy speaking this fellow artist. I really would have liked to post a photo of one of her pieces, but she (understandably) preferred that I didn't photograph them. It was a bittersweet note on which to end my excursion, but my two free drinkies were taking the edge off of my contemplative zone. 

There was also a free party just getting into swing at the Galapogos Art Space, which is one of my favorite venues in NYC. But I had friends coming into town and had to get back up the hill to meet them... 

Results: Free art exhibits+Free booze? Pinch me! It was a lovely half-evening in a lovely neighborhood. I only wished my friends were arriving earlier, as it would have been a perfect excursion for out-of-town guests. Why have I not done this before?!?! 

Status: Success! 

Day 14: Never have I ever... tried to knit

Knitting has always seemed like the kind of repetitive, mechanical craft that I'd be good at. I've always wanted to try it, despite missing the hipster knitting craze of the mid 00's. So I looked up knitting classes in Brooklyn, and found one that was free (free!) from 5-7 PM on Saturdays. Most others are upwards of $100, which was out of my blog project price range, so despite the undesirable timeframe, I decided to give this one whirl. Enlisting a knitting buddy in my friend Beth, we set off for the Brooklyn Yarn Cafe. 

First of all, the journey to the store was an adventure in itself, through some of Brooklyn's neighborhoods least likely to ever make it to New York mag's annual liveable list. The main drag was sparsely populated and bleak. Having had my car broken into two years ago mere blocks from this location, I was extremely wary of leaving my Golden Girl on the street. But luckily, we found a spot right outside the yarn store, and I had to admit... it did look like an adorable shop with it's bright window painting of yarn and cupcakes. It was a warm and inviting oasis in the middle of a sparse, gray, run-down area.  

Enthusiastic beginnings

Miss Rosemary, the proprietor and teacher, greeted us. Her business was eclectic, to say the least: café/yarn shop/laundry service. It took me a while to catch on to that last part. I couldn't understand why people (mostly men) kept coming in with large, bulky bags... until I eavesdropped on an interaction between Miss Rosemary and a mystery customer. I guess peddling yarn isn't the most profitable endeavor, and Rosie seemed like the resourceful type. A girl's gotta pay the bills! 

We waited for a long time in the "back room" with a Guy Friday-type employee named Al. He was a young guy from Tennessee with a molasses-thick accent and black newsboy cap. We endured his random dissertation about the nuances of Tennessee county politics with a smile, but when we asked if he knit and his reply was "I'd love to, but where I'm staying doesn't allow me to keep needles," well, that's when things started to get weird. Would this class start already? Finally, Miss Rosemary came in to help us pick out some yarn and announced the class would be starting in the front room. I looked at my watch, she was starting 45 minutes late. But, hey, it's hard to complain about a free class, right?

Yarn Disaster

Right away, I could tell Miss Rosemary was a thorough teacher. She first taught us about "casting-on", or starting the yarn on the needle, which was a skill I picked up right away. This was easy! I would have this baby blanket done in no time! But no, she had a system. She made both Beth and I do and undo our stitches 4 times, to ensure we had the skill mastered. After about 45 minutes of this tedium, we moved on to the actual knitting. This is where it all fell apart for me. My smug mastery of casting-on meant nothing now. I fumbled with the needles and simply could not visualize the stitch. Finalllllly, I finished the first row after about 45 more minutes. Something looked weird. When I got to the second row, it became clear that my work was beyond repair. It was a tangled mess of pink and blue fuzz. Miss Rosemary took one look, and promptly ripped the whole knot off the needle. All of my hours of fine motor skill down the drain. MY MASTERPIECE!?!?! 

I doggedly started again, but had less patience this time. It was 8:15, and I was getting hungry. Now, it's important to mention that the knitting class was also attended by four interesting and friendly ladies. Their intimate tone made both Beth and I assume that they were a group of friends. Turns out, they met last weekend at the shop, and had come back for another stitch n' bitch sesh. They welcomed us right into their group, allowing us to truly understand the concept of a knitting circle. There was something profoundly connective (and quite relaxing) about rocking back and forth, as our fingers worked away, our mouths laughing and chatting, our eyes micro-focused. Who cares that it was a Saturday night, and most of NYC was getting dressed in their best for a hot night on the town. We were knitting ladies. 

But we were also hungry ladies. Bob (female), a spunky and spritely massage therapist who lived in the apartments above the shop, was very enthusiastic about a group dinner. It's uncommon to meet random, new friends and head out for dinner within a few hours of making the acquaintance, but hey, what did we have to lose? Bob's husband Lez joined in to complete our eclectic group. So the ladies-plus-Lez packed up our projects, paid for our yarn, thanked Miss Rosemary, and went to a nearby Japanese restaurant owned by Bob and Lez's friend. 

Sushi "Bombs"

It was the kind of secret place you have to know to find. It blended into this mostly industrial neighborhood seamlessly. There was no sign. No sound from the street. But once the massive, wooden door opened, we stepped inside an intimate and aromatic secret sanctuary. Long wooden tables filled with the hipster glam. A funky music mix of Duran Duran b-sides, Dr. Dre, and Fela Kuti. And a totally bare, minimalist asian design of the small space. The friendly owner, Phil, greeted our new friends with hugs and kisses, and showed our group inside. He asked us how much we wanted to pay per person, and announced he would do all the ordering for us. $25? Ok. Any food allergies or aversions? Nope. Great. Sit back and enjoy. 

Pork Perfection

With minutes, the courses began to arrive, one after the other. Salad with fresh miso dressing (made six times nightly for optimal flavor), braised lotus fruit, pickled japanese vegetables, perfectly crunchy vegetable tempura, three plates of "sushi bombs", crispy dumplings, and the pièce de résistance: a ring of pork belly slivers with crème fraiche in a salty, bacon-y broth that we sopped up with sticky rice. Did I mention the potpourri of freshly made sauces and purees with interesting ingredients like yuzu and 6-hour soaked chiles? This meal was thebomb.com, and was only $25 a head?! We were getting hooked up. Look at all these other suckers in here. They have to look at the menu. Order food? We just chatted with our new friends as plate after plate of deliciousness was presented to us in bountiful quantity. We felt special. Phil was treating us like old friends rather than new customers. It was delightful.  

As I parked my car in my neighborhood at midnight, hours after my anticipated 8PM homecoming, I couldn't help but think "This is exactly why I'm doing this blog experiment." Openness to new experiences can lead to the most unexpected adventures.... 

Results: I sucked at knitting, but I intend to keep trying. It just takes practice, I'm sure I'll get it down eventually. However, the social aspect of this classic American craft* led us to make some unique, new friends and share a very special meal. It's a night I won't soon forget. 

Status: Craft FAIL; Life SUCCESS! 

*Knitting's origins date back as early 300 AD with Romano-Egyptian socks, but the knitting circle is an iconic American symbol of domesticity and female community. 

Day 12: Never have I ever... seen a Sexhibition

Today I went to one of NYC's finest cultural institutions. Forget MoMA. Guggenheim-Schmoogenheim.  If you're seeking curatorial genius, look no further than 233 Fifth Avenue: The Museum of Sex. The gift shop says it all with Pink Sock Tissue dispensers. His and hers! 

Actually, I've been wanting to check out this museum for a while. I've passed by it dozens of times. But it always seemed like a strange activity to suggest. Hey guys, after brunch you want to hit up the Sex Museum? Lucky for me, my chosen day of attendance was a very special day at the Museum of Sex, or MoSex, as they've dubbed it (creative...). It was a calendar signing for New York City Hunky Firefighters of the Month. 12 of NYC's bravest and a sad turnout of even sadder women in large, giggling gaggles. It really added to the ambiance. 

The first question asked by a friend about the Museum of Sex, is "how porn-ey will it be?" The answer? VERY PORN-EY. The curators don't care about easing the visitor into the experience. First piece in the first exhibit... bam! Hard core porn. The entire first-floor exhibition chronicled the depiction of sex in film. I was shocked and humored to see the earlier works, some of which were quite graphic. There was also a section about sex in modern movies. N-O-T for the faint of heart. I felt remarkably uncomfortable watching the famous 9 1/2 weeks bathtub scene in a public setting. That's the weird dichotomy of MoSex. The carnal content sparks the most intimate of thoughts, but it's set in the sterile, analytical environment of a museum. And is there anything analytical about sex? 

The second floor was dedicated to a strange, disjointed mix of media: the depiction of sex in art, photography, sculpture, and thennnn... some sex toys you could touch. There was The Sex of Robots, a super-disturbing tiny metal model of a robot orgy, with a child doing things a child shouldn't be doing. Yikes. In a less freaky corner, there were some cool old pornographic photos. It was most interesting to see the sepia-toned Victorian-era photographs with poses that resemble the raunchiest porn photos from today. It reminds us that no matter how much our culture shifts, and no matter what inappropriate television show MTV has created this year, people have been knockin' boots since the beginning of time. Since before boots! So what's with the big taboo? 

The third floor was the most interesting. It was a special exhibition on the sex lives of animals. Mostly photos and lots of text, it focused a lot on nature's sexual anomalies: gender-bending animals, female penises, male mammaries, sex-role reversal and more. From homosexuality to gender, masturbation to monogamy (or lack thereof), the exhibition looked at animal sexual behaviors that humans have classified as deviant. Acts that we've outlawed, punished, and shamed, animals don't give a shit. And who's usually right... man or Mother Nature? It was cool to see that animal sexuality is every bit as weird and complicated as human sexuality. So next time you go to spank the monkey, you can feel better knowing that right now, a monkey is doing the exact same thing. 

Results:  Learned a lot of fun factoids about the animal kingdom, saw some weird, old porn, and checked an oft-overlooked NYC museum off my list. Uninhibited museum-goers will appreciate an intense look at the chronology of human sexuality in culture. It wasn't the most impressive museum in the city, but no one could ever accuse it of being boring. Oh, and definitely don't bring your mom. 

Status: Sexcess! 

Day 4: Never have I ever... made a home video

This post could also be titled "Never Have I Ever Had SO MUCH Respect for Stay-at-Home Moms", but i'm really trying to avoid clichés here. But seriously... to all the parents out there: RESPECT.

I just spent the past three days with my adorable, hilarious nephews and I feel like just ran a marathon. Oh fuck, the clichés. I'm too tired to think. You people seriously do this every day? Come on. Surely you must lock them in the closet or tie them together from time to time. Child abuse? Please. That's sanity. They.never.stop. 
(Before anyone gets all worked up and calls CPS on me, let me be 100% clear: I'm kidding.) 

Taking care of young children all day long isn't exactly challenging. But damn, it's hard. It's exhausting, repetitive, ridiculous, and is the greatest exercise in patience I've ever had... and I only do it on snow days.  

Carter, Oliver, and their Jammie, Pop-pop and I were snowed in for two days while my sister had to trudge into work. (She works in healthcare, and sick patients don't take snow days...) In this childcare scenario, I try to make it easy on my parents so they can enjoy the kids rather than tire at their merciless energy. I usually handle the most annoying duties like meals, diapers, discipline, chasing. But I'm not delusional. This caregiving situation is easy-peasy compared to the typical day for most parents. I can say "Hey Dad, please watch Oliver for a minute. I really have to pee." The alternative if I actually was a stay-at-home mom? Oliver stands there looking at me quizzically as I drop trou, and I speculate permanent damage to his perception of normal family boundaries. 

I could go on and on about how much patience and love it takes to raise children well, but I don't want to overstate the obvious here. Plus, what the H-E-double-hockeysticks do I know? I'm not raising these kids. I'm just the babysitter. I aim to be a nurterer, but I know I'm only toe-dipping in the vast ocean that is Parenthood. And man, that bitch is deep. 

Today's New Experience: Shoot and edit a short home video. That's it. Simple? Tricky? Fun? Tedious? I didn't know. 

Six months ago, I got a new MacBook Pro, but I have barely scratched it's capabilities. I haven't even cracked iMovie, and just started with iPhoto last month. I'm surprised the folks at Apple haven't knocked on my door and taken it away to go live with a foster User.

Between iMovie and Flip, homemade movies so ubiquitous that it's almost embarrassing to admit I've never made one. There are elementary school children learning how to edit videos right now in their "TechnArtology" classes. But making good homemade movies require a dash of skill. My friend Christie, in particular, has demonstrated her Edward Scissorshands-like editing talents on multiple occasions. She hits all the right notes: Appropriate music, humorous captioning, clever timing. I aspire to make a piece that's a fraction as cute as her works. 

So, I spent all day Wednesday casually shooting the boys in their daily activities with a Kodak HD mini-videocam.  After the goslings went to bed, and after wiping the floor with my Dad in a few games of of Jotto, I began to upload the footage to iMovie. I didn't want to watch the stupid tutorial; winging it with iProducts is usually effective thanks to their intuitive UI. It took me about an hour to figure out how to import the footage, basic editing, music, text, and transitions. About 2.5 hours of actual editing and creative experimentation, and I was done. Unfortunately, starting this project at midnight was a bad idea. I was up until 4:00 a.m. binging on the meaningless details before forcing myself to shut down and get some rest. A mere four hours later, I woke to a tiny little hand pushing my door open. "ReeRee, are you awake? Let's go play games." 

Results: A cute little ditty* that the grandparents might even forward on to their AOL friends. Please keep in mind, after two days with cabin-fevered boys, things got a little wacky at Casa Bruno. And yes, we know that hand trucks aren't toys. 

Status: Success! 

Notes:
- I showed the video to the boys this morning. Carter thought it was the most hilarious thing he's ever seen. He laughed uncontrollably, danced around singing "i'm crazy like you!" and exclaimed "Play it again!". Oliver began to wail as soon as he saw the close-up shot of his own face. Upon the second viewing, Ollie made it a little further into the video,  and then again had a meltdown.... at the sight of his own face. Kids are so weird.  
*Warning: Contains nudity. Video not intended for children and pets under the age of 18.